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Modern Stoicism
Companionship follows a man in Estonia who works as a paid companion for women who need dates, reassurance, or someone to just listen. Where did the idea behind this novel come from?
It was a culmination of factors. The first one was a short piece I wrote on something unrelated, based in Japan, for a writing group. I remember hopping between videos for research, and one of the men’s faces lingered in my mind while he was filmed during one of those paid dates. I couldn’t help but think about what he must be thinking. The second was the workers in Amsterdam’s Red Light District; I only visited for the first time last year, and at first I didn’t notice it, but afterwards I thought about all the security measures they have in place to protect the employees. It’s very European in that regard. The third was several books I had read; the most influential of which is probably Luster by Raven Leilani. I hated the emotional withholding while reading that, but two years later, it still lingers in my mind. I was curious what that kind of restraint would look like in my hands.
The novel treats loneliness with remarkable nuance rather than melodrama. Was that emotional restraint something you consciously aimed for while writing?
Yes. My writing usually teeters on melodrama, and I have to remove a lot in editing, whereas in trying to write Toomas, I actually had to add more. It was my first time writing a full-length story from the POV of a man, and I tried to embody modern stoicism into it. It’s how I see men, I suppose—there’s a quiet loneliness in having to perform the role within societal expectations. I tried to subvert the stereotypes that men aren’t emotionally versed or that anger needs to be this explosive thing; every emotion exists through Toomas’s body, but he doesn’t linger on why they exist to begin with.
Several clients leave a lasting impression, each revealing a different kind of loneliness. Was there one supporting character you particularly enjoyed writing, and why?
The overall favorite among early readers was Helene, and I’m happy about that because I haven’t written anyone like that before, either. Helene was the conduit for Estonian history, and I’m glad she comes across as a likeable character with a rich history rather than someone old who happens to ramble. I liked writing their dynamic. To me, it was the most authentic relationship Toomas had in the whole book.
What do you hope readers take away from Companionship about loneliness, intimacy, and the ways we seek connection in the modern world?
I hope they see similarities in their own experiences and draw conclusions about their own defense mechanisms. Despite the perceived cost of being emotionally vulnerable with someone, they still do it anyway. If they are chronically online, there are still people in the real world who feel exactly as they do, but it takes courage to put yourself out there. Courage takes many forms, and whichever resonates with them, I hope this is their sign to do it.
Author Links: GoodReads | Website | Amazon
Until he isn’t.
Companionship is what that costs him.
Companionship
Companionship follows Toomas, a man in Estonia who works as a paid companion, or rented boyfriend, for women who need dates, reassurance, practice, attention, or simply someone to listen. The setup sounds like it could lean into gimmick, but the book treats the work with a steady, intimate seriousness. Toomas moves between clients, app notes, carefully maintained boundaries, and his strained relationship with Annika, his girlfriend, who is building a startup and slowly pulling away into a different life. The result is a story about emotional labor, loneliness, and the strange blur between paid care and real feeling.
What makes the book compelling is how closely it stays inside Toomas’s body and routine. He’s always checking his watch, adjusting his hair, trimming his nails, reading rooms, counting hugs, and deciding what version of himself each person needs. One of the clearest lines comes early, when he says of his clients, “They just need someone to listen to them.” That sounds simple, but the book keeps showing how complicated listening becomes when it’s packaged, timed, reviewed, and sold. The companion work isn’t just a job here. It becomes the way Toomas avoids himself, even as it forces him to notice everyone else.
The strongest relationships in the book are not always romantic. Eliise’s anxiety and longing, Helene’s cranky tenderness, Karin’s watchful honesty, and Toomas’s mother’s judgment all pull different parts of him into view. Annika, meanwhile, brings the pressure of ordinary intimacy, the kind that can’t be managed through an app or reduced to a protocol. The book is especially good at small gestures: a hand left on a table, someone not reaching for it, a hug held too long, a couch that suddenly feels unsafe. These moments give the story its charge without needing big declarations.
The writing style is observant, dryly funny, and often quietly tense. Tallinn’s streets, saunas, buses, apartments, restaurants, and corporate spaces feel lived in rather than decorated. The book also has a sharp eye for modern work culture, from startup language to platform metrics to the corporate habit of turning care into process. Karin cuts through Toomas’s careful self-presentation when she tells him, “That’s not what you are though, is it?” That question lingers because the whole novel is, in a way, asking what he is when he’s not performing usefulness for someone else.
By the end, the book feels less like a romance than a character study of a man who’s very good at closeness and not very good at being known. It’s conversational, melancholy, and often uncomfortably perceptive about the way people outsource connection while still needing it to feel real. The ending doesn’t tie everything up neatly, but it fits the story’s emotional logic. Toomas is left in motion, still working, still reaching for warmth, still not entirely sure whether the life he’s built is helping him survive or keeping him from living.
Pages: 163 | ASIN : B0H2RLW4RR
